Amaranth
by Windswift
Summary: [Set during Abhorsen] Astarael wants to have a talk with Mogget. But if she's not going to kill him, why is this second chance at life so important? What makes a swiftlydying rose more beautiful than eternally blooming amaranth?


Takes place during _Abhorsen,_ in the well under the rose garden, just after Sameth, Lirael, and the Dog have escaped.

Disclaimer: Garth Nix owns _Sabriel, Lirael_, and _Abhorsen_; I am not him.

**_Amaranth_**

This place was to be his tomb.

It was not unfitting. After all, the tunnel burrowed deep under the earth; the black darkness buried and suffocated him, trying to snuff out his bright whiteness. Otherworldly waters swirled and pulled him to the brink, bringing him to her embrace—a phantom of the river Death, its tide almost inescapable.

He was certain that she would not let him go, that he would not tread in Life again. The Bright Shiners harbored little love for this brother. They had bound him to servitude for two millennia, erasing his name, freedom, and much of his mind. And it wasn't only the indignity, that Yrael had fallen as some infamous and disreputable relic of the Wallmakers.

It is the nature of Living things, of Free things, to change. So as punishment, when the Seven bound Yrael, they stole his fluid light, burying it deep beneath constraining flesh. A fixed form, a collar, and a master with a tight hand: he might as well have been Dead. But his spirit remained unbroken. Saraneth bound his memories, and forbade his resentful actions, but he was free to have his thoughts.

His true soul was kept alive by oaths of vengeance, while his outer soul enigmatically rendered assistance to the Bloodline known as Abhorsen. Somewhere he had acquired a fondness for fish, an indulgence into the nature of his feline body.

Yet now, he was almost willing to surrender his irrepressible thirst for Life. A decade ago he had heard the voice of the bell Astarael, the Weeper that calls all deep into Death. But Astarael had relented for him, because Saraneth had charged Mogget with one last duty to the Abhorsen. And even unbound, he'd still submitted to her will.

But even as he had climbed out of the resevoir, whose frigid waters could not compare to the phantom river in which he now stood, he had heard the long, single toll of Astarael. It was a lullaby older than the world, tantalizing and sweet in its sorrow, and it promised to him of days long ago. At that moment, he had wanted nothing more than to defy his sisters' wishes and answer. It had stirred faint memories in his mind; he was sick for home, but no home would have him, save the one he'd lost long before.

Deep in Astarael's domain, she'd let Kibeth and the Bloodlines go free; that meant her song was all and only for himself.

Suddenly, the white lady let her arms fall from their welcoming embrace. The river stopped flowing, and Mogget was still alive.

Then that was it. She was denying him an end to it all, again. She wanted to talk to him, in earnest. Ah, that was it, then. Saraneth had restrained, forced, manipulated, even twisted his thoughts. Ranna had done it all as well, muddling him with heavy sleep. Kibeth had scolded, threatened, tormented. Astarael, too, then, had some stupid purpose for him to fulfill, for the sake of the Abhorsen.

She spoke then, and from her words, he gathered that she had felt the hostility of his thought. He wasn't surprised; being so closely aligned with her elements Death and Time for so long, she surely would have gained their empathetic qualities of omniscience.

"What I've awaken to offer you, brother, is a choice—a second chance."

Death and Time slept under the dominion of her realm. Like twin rivers, they flowed on eternally, and in the end would always be flowing, no matter how mortals might try to mark or halt their passing. They would last even beyond the end of the world, still existing even with no meaning and no one to believe in them. Eternal.

Forever is a long time to be sorrowful, to regret. An eternity to be painfully aware of a sense of loss, of unfulfillment… Astarael would never weep for one more than she would mourn for Mogget, unwhole and broken by the mistake of the Seven, if he should die now. The hope for his soul—his salvation, healing, and completeness—lay in living Life, and in finding a reason for that Life, to give meaning to his entire existence.

Yrael would have handled it much better if the Seven had simply killed him immediately for refusing to aid them.

Astarael held her hands before her, palms cupped to show the contents to Mogget. Light was pooling in them, liquid and lovely, very still compared to the dancing white fire of her body. It then took the shape of a blossom, its petals large and showy, and a heavenly fragrance like ambrosia diffused throughout the tunnel.

"Amaranth. In legend, its flower is eternally blooming; it has always existed so, and will continue to exist, even when all else is gone, even when no one believes the tale any longer. It grows in only one place—in Death, beyond the Ninth Gate. Its flower is indeed of the rarest exquisite beauty, a delight to behold.

"It is the perfect flower for Death."

She let it melt away like a mist between her fingers. The scent called to Mogget, like the lullaby that drew him to the end of the earth.

"Yet there is another flower, of beauty no more yet no less, that I would sacrifice anything to behold."

A perfume of roses and rosemary flooded Mogget, always changing as it flowed around him; now it was sweet, there a bitter tang, fresh buds competing with brown and brittle blooms. A heady scent, and deeper than his senses could truly appreciate.

Astarael continued. "Rosemary and roses are for Life. Whereas amaranth is eternally constant, roses are forever changing. Their blossoms will die all too soon, never to be seen again, and replaced with new and different flowers.

"The amaranth will always be here, hidden, blooming, but you must seize the roses before they fade."

The Mogget laughed softly as the scent passed away, as if borne on some breeze of early spring. "Sister, surely you did not stop me here to tell me of flowers."

"I'm giving you a second chance. One day, Yrael, I will gather you home in my embrace… but until then, there is a reason for everything, even your life and existence. That is why I wished to speak with you. It is not often Death releases her captives, so they must not squander the chance."

As if a dream, Astarael's pale shining form faded, and the cold unearthly river disappeared. There was nothing left in the tunnel but a small white cat, his emerald eyes glowing with the dark. He wore a red collar, and tiny lights moved strangely across it. A miniature silver bell hung from it: Ranna, the Sleepbringer.

The cat's ears twitched, catching a faint chime that concealed a voice.

"You Live, for we cannot bind your heart."

_"I am Yrael," it said, casting a hand out to throw a line of silver fire into the breaking spell-ring, its voice crackling with fire. "I also stand against you."_

_…_

_Orannis spoke then, in bitter, cutting tones._

"_Why, Yrael? Why?"_

…

"_Life," said Yrael, who was more Mogget than it ever knew. "Fish and fowl, warm sun and shady trees, the field mice in the wheat, under the cool light of the moon. All the—"_

**…  
****The End  
****…**

_-Windswift_


End file.
